Matter of Time
by silverhelix428
Summary: On impulse, Peter turned away from the funeral party and made his way through the snow, hurrying to catch up to the retreating figure..."


**Title**- Matter of Time  
**Author**- Victoria  
**Rating**- PG-13 (for language)  
**Summary**- "On impulse, Peter turned away from the funeral party and made his way through the snow, hurrying to catch up to the retreating figure."

**A/N**- I don't know what this is. I really don't. But the last bit was tagged on last-minute because I was getting very upset with it, and then I realized that the Heroes writers have a way of introducing plot points and then dropping them as soon as it's not convenient any more.

* * *

The funeral was something akin to hell.

The press and population had widely accepted the political assassination cover (investigation ongoing), but Peter wasn't sure he'd ever get the image of Nathan falling out of his head. Angela had insisted on a closed-casket funeral, obviously a ward against anyone realizing that the corpse was already two months old.

For the first few days after Nathan had said his final goodbye on the rooftop, Peter had wanted the big state funeral most politicians were awarded. His brother was a hero; he deserved it. But their mother had wisely opted for a small, private burial, and now Peter was glad she had. He was barely keeping it together as it was. There was no way he'd have been able to handle the more elaborate, lengthy service a public funeral would have required. Breaking down in front of friends and family was bad enough.

Heidi and the kids attended the funeral. Peter was glad; they were a memory of a happier time, before powers and battles and fear. Back when Nathan was just a congressional candidate, back when Peter was just a hospice nurse.

"I'm sorry," Heidi said, approaching Peter after the service.

He nodded, giving a twisted approximation of a smile and moved away quickly before her sympathy could start up the tears again. Peter was getting tired of crying: even as a child he had never been particularly tearful. But for the last week and a half, he had barely been able to keep his eyes dry for five minutes before some painful reminder would cause him to break down.

Claire coming down for the funeral had been the bitterest moment so far. When he first met his niece, she had been the cheerleader with the sad little smile. Sometime between then and now, the sad and the smile had separated, so that she was a creature of two extremes. There was the raging, desperate girl who had faced down Flint and Knox to buy him time to escape; there was the golden, laughing girl whom he glimpsed on the occasions when "destiny" didn't throw them together. But when she came flying into his apartment, wild-eyed, the day before, the sad little smile was back. It gave Peter the odd feeling of being right back where he started, still that naive nurse determined to save the world one way or another.

But this time, he didn't have his fearless big brother behind him to step in and save the day when Peter wasn't strong enough.

Cold December sunlight streamed through the gaps between the lowering, snow-filled clouds and lit the cemetery up in scattered patches of brightness. A light snow had been drifting across the field, and as the priest finished his final prayer, a gust of wind brought down a sudden wave of flakes. The casket slowly began to lower into the earth, and Peter looked away, casting his eyes around for anything else to look at.

They found a tall figure standing just at the edge of the trees that lined the cemetery. As he watched, the familiar shape moved away. On impulse, Peter turned away from the funeral party and made his way through the snow, ignoring his mother's call and Claire's hesitant attempt to stop him.

He caught up to the receding man a few yards beyond where the cemetery ended and the New Jersey woodland began. "Matt," he said simply.

At the sound of his name, Matt Parkman halted in his tracks. "Peter," he said. "I'm... sorry. I'm sorry for what I did. It was--"

"It was my mother's fault," Peter said curtly.

Matt bit his lips, nodding uncomfortably. "Then I'm sorry for coming here today. It wasn't appropriate. I just... I had to say goodbye, I guess. I don't know. Your brother was a good friend to me at a time when I really needed one, even though he had enough problems to deal with. After Kirby Plaza, you know? He... he was a good guy. He made mistakes, but so have we all since this all started..." He trailed away, realizing that his babbling was the last thing Peter wanted to hear.

"Do you have a point?"

The telepath sighed. "Yeah. There was another reason I came to New York. I'm guessing that since he's... well. Sylar's back, isn't he?"

Peter nodded.

"We can't let him go. He's just going to kill more people, become more powerful. If we're going to stop him, it has to be soon. I spent two months trying to keep him trapped in my head, and believe me, I know how he thinks. He's going to be on the hunt and--"

But Peter cut him off. "Matt, you were willing to die to keep Sylar from returning to his body. By extension, I see that as being willing to die to keep Nathan alive, in one form or another. And I appreciate that. But I can't... I can't do this anymore. Everyone wants me to be the hero. Even I did, for awhile. And I guess once, I was able to. But even then, it was really Nathan who kept me going, who was there to back me up when I couldn't do it on my own. I've never been strong enough to go it alone, and that goes double now. I can't save the world. I can't fight Sylar. I couldn't... save Nathan."

For a moment, he struggled with himself, beating back memories and tears with the same hitched breath. Then he continued. "And I'm not going to try, okay? We've been down this road before- if I get involved, I'm just gonna fuck it up like I always do."

Matt shook his head vehemently. "Peter, you have the Haitian's power. You might be the only one who can--"

"No. Don't say it," Peter said. "Do you know how many times I've been told that I'm "the only one who can"? The only one who can save the cheerleader. The only one who can save the world. The only one who can stop Sylar. But it's not true- it's always someone else who does that. You don't need me. I'm gonna get up in the mornings and go to work and save people's lives. That's what I'm supposed to be doing. This saving-the-world stuff is just fucking up my life, and the lives of everybody who knows me."

There was nothing Matt could say to that. "Are you sure?" he asked. Peter nodded. "Alright then."

"Thanks for coming," the empath said. "Nathan would have been glad you were here."

Matt shrugged. He turned, walking away deeper into the trees. "I'll see you around, Peter. Or... maybe not."

Peter turned away, walking back into the cemetery. He avoided the group of people still huddled in the snow around Nathan's grave. He couldn't possibly face them now. It was true, what he'd said to Matt. This hero thing... it was just a delusion of grandeur. Nathan was the real hero, and always had been. It was his job to fix everything; it was Peter's job to break it in the first place. So all he had to do was keep from breaking anything too big for him to fix on his own. No heroics. No cheerleaders, no formulas or viruses or future selves. The everyday tragedies of strangers, Peter could take care of. But his own tragedies, and the global ones, were just too big for him.

This was his life from now on. Ordinary, or nearly so. Just another anonymous New York EMT.

* * *

Matt sat back in his car, confused and wondering how he'd arrived there. The confusion faded when he saw the sheets of paper he clutched in his hands. It had been awhile since the urge to draw had overtaken him, but now he recognized the feeling that had been gnawing at him as he'd walked away from Peter. He stared at the drawings. Black pen lines, bold and harsh, sometimes so much so as to tear right through the paper. But the image was still rendered clear against the stark white of the paper.

The first drawing was a man Matt did not recognize, with a tattooed woman at his right hand and the world at his feet. Claire, Mohinder, Hiro and himself knelt before the man, forced into submission.

The second drawing. The same man, and a face Matt would recognize anywhere. Peter Petrelli held the man aloft by the throat, and in his other hand clutched a ball of what appeared to be flames.

Matt released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and suddenly a tremendous weight seemed to lift off his chest. Peter was their best hope and always had been. When he had refused to help Matt track down the serial killer, Matt... well, he hadn't been surprised. So soon after the death of his brother, Matt hadn't really expected anything else. But it had still frightened him to think of going into this with at most Mohinder by his side and at worst totally alone. But unless his painting mojo was messed up, Peter would be back on their side eventually. That didn't surprise him, either. The younger Petrelli was grieving, but he had a formidable conscience and a heart of gold. He'd help them when he was ready.

It was just a matter of time.


End file.
